


Blud

by Herk



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: All Holmes brothers have problems, Gen, He really tries to be, It's his reason d'être, Mycroft is a good big brother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 10:45:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9068248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herk/pseuds/Herk
Summary: "Don’t be absurd. I am not given to outbursts of brotherly compassion. - You know what happened to the other one."The fandom had rumours about Tom Hiddleston playing the third Holmes brother (the fandom has rumours about EVERYTHING). This is what my brain made out of those rumours





	

**Author's Note:**

> NOT part of my headcanon - just a warning for the regulars.

Mycroft wasn’t amused when he saw the text his PA had sent him.

 

“‘He’ is back, currently at location 4. Not sure if MI6 spotted him before he was moved out of sight.”

 

Damn him. Damn his brother and all his problems. He had a country to run and no time for this nonsense. He finished the meeting with the MP of Flydale North with utter professionalism and efficiency and even managed the required amount of polite manners - no small task given his current mood.

 

There were certain security precautions Mycroft needed to take and so it took him two hours until he finally entered ‘location 4’ unaccompanied and unwatched by any eyes, electronic or otherwise.

 

He hadn’t seen the man in the chair in years and had hoped he wouldn’t ever need to meet with him again. The dark-haired, charismatic nuisance currently cuffed to a chair was officially dead and Mycroft wondered if his life would be easier if he simply adjusted the reality to the paperwork. It would end so many risks. It would keep the man from bothering him - or Sherlock - ever again. On the other hand…

 

“Hello Sherrinford.”

 

“Mycroft.”

 

*

 

If anyone thought that Mycroft and Sherlock were frosty around one another they would have changed their judgement the moment they witnessed the eldest Holmes brother with Sherrinford.

 

“What do you want?”

 

“Really, brother-mine? No ‘welcome back’, no ‘good to see you’?” Sarcasm was dripping from the younger man’s voice.

 

“It is definitely  _ not  _ good to see you, and you are not stupid enough to believe that. So why waste time lying? Now what do you want?” Mycroft had no patience for Sherrinford. Hadn’t had any for a long time. And the quicker he learned what brought his problematic brother back to England’s shores, the quicker he could get rid off him.

 

“I need help.” The younger Holmes bit his lips. He hated admitting it but his troubles were bad enough to overwrite his pride.

 

Mycroft’s knuckles on his umbrella turned white. He turned on his heel to leave. 

 

“Wait. Where are you going?”

 

“I have no time for you stating the obvious, dancing around the issues. So either start talking fast or I’m out and you’ll find yourself on a ship going back to the Americans the slow way.”

 

“Look this isn’t just about me. You told me very clearly that you were through helping me after Frankfurt.” Sherrinford swallowed. “I… I might have screwed up and if I can’t fix this, the consequences would be… catastrophic.”

 

Mycroft stopped and turned around, his eyebrows raised. Catastrophic consequences weren’t really something that surprised him. Sherrinford’s admission of guilt on the other hand was extraordinary. Neither of his brothers was good at admitting their own mistakes.

 

“My father is missing and I desperately need to find him.”

 

Mycroft furrowed his brow. “Father is fine.”

 

“You didn’t listen - Not the dolt - MY father is missing.”

 

*

 

Fifteen year old Mycroft watched  his brothers playing on the lawn. It was nice seeing little Sherrinford play with Sherlock so carelessly.

 

Mycroft often worried about his brothers.

 

Sherlock with his sense of adventure, always seeking thrills and just enough brains to realise how slow he was compared to both his siblings had a way to get himself, and consequently Mycroft and Sherrinford into trouble. He regularly sought out potential catastrophes and almost always made them worse. Still, Sherlock had a good heart, he was a romantic and dreamed of becoming a hero someday. While Mycroft didn’t exactly approve of such foolery, he couldn’t really blame him. 

 

Sherrinford on the other hand was almost as clever as Mycroft, in some regards even surpassing his older brother’s abilities at that age. If he was completely honest with himself, Sherrinford might actually be the more intelligent one, the age difference being the only advantage Mycroft possessed.  There were times the youngest frightened him though. They were all highly intelligent - even slow Sherlock - and they all would be considered arrogant, cold, sometimes manipulative, judged by normal standards. But Mycroft cared, if not for anyone else then at least for his brothers, Mummy, and Father. He cared deeply whether he showed it or not. Sherlock wore his heart on his sleeve. And although he acted as if the whole world revolved around him, he still cared very much for his brothers and their parents. Sherrinford on the other hand, well, he wasn’t sure. He was perfectly well behaved around their parents and strangers. He apparently looked up to his two older brothers. And yet… Sometimes he couldn’t shake the feeling that Sherrinford treated them all like he treated random strangers on the street, that his youngest brother’s adoring looks were about as real as Mycroft’s one ‘astonished adoration’ when Uncle Rudy let him in on a ‘secret’.

 

Right now they were playing though, two little boys rowdily running around, using sticks as play swords. A casual observer might have mistaken them for some regular eight year old and his five year old brother completely missing the parts where all of Sherlock’s “no ‘Ford, you need to hold your arm like  _ this _ ” and “look, your feet need to stand like  _ this  _ to execute the move” comments were far from made up random rules but indeed all very helpful tips. And when Sherrinford questioned the rules it was never about defiance but always about understanding, with Sherlock patiently giving the exact reasons for each and every one of his commands. Well, to be fair it was kind of hard to follow them from the outside. Both boys talked in their very own language, using shortcuts, abbreviations, associations, and looks an outsider had no chance of understanding. Even Mycroft sometimes had trouble catching all of it, owed to the fact of the greater age difference and resulting difference in experiences and of course that both of them tended to talk so quickly and in high-pitched shrieks as little children were wont to do.

 

Seeing his two brothers play and laugh like that Mycroft decided that it didn’t really matter. Even if Sherrinford saw him as nothing more than a convenient goldfish, Mycroft knew that he would always be there for both of his little brothers, looking after them, taking care.

 

*

  
  


Sherrinford was eight and Sherlock eleven. Mycroft was visiting for the weekend but had kept it a secret to surprise his younger brothers. When he went out into the garden to greet them, he overheard them talking behind the garden shed.

 

“No ‘Lock, you don’t get it. It’s not a  _ game _ . I really am Loki.”

 

“The god of mischief, it’s fitting.” Sherlock sounded amused.

 

‘The god of lies’ Mycroft couldn’t help but think.

 

“Does that mean  _ I _ am Thor? Or Mycroft? I also doubt that Father is the omniscient All-Father.”

 

Sherrinford laughed but to Mycroft’s ears it sounded bitter.

 

“Course not, you two are what Thor should have been, I built myself a  _ better  _ family. Why would I want a copy as stupid as the original?”

 

“You didn’t build anything, ‘Ford, certainly not  _ me _ \- nor Mycroft. We are far too clever for anyone to make us up.”

 

There was another pause. “You really are no fun, ‘Lock. I’m trying to come up with a way to explain how I really  _ could  _ be Loki and you just refuse to play along.”

 

“Well, you didn’t make up a very convincing story.”

 

Mycroft could practically hear Sherlock sticking his tongue out at Sherrinford, buying the youngest’s claim that it was all a story. Mycroft wasn’t sure though. The idea in itself was preposterous naturally, but something in Sherrinford’s voice made him contemplate the possibility that his brother himself actually believed his own outlandish claim.

 

Mycroft decided that he’d heard more than enough and made himself noticed, pretending to just have arrived at the shed.

 

“Hello, you two little imps.”

 

“Mycroft!” Both boys greeted him enthusiastically, his visit the joyous surprise he had hoped for.

 

They did spend a busy and happy weekend together, Mummy even commented how lovely it was to watch her three boys play and smile together - as much as they ever did.

 

Only from that day forward Mycroft kept a very close eye on Sherrinford looking out for more signs of mental problems.

 

*

 

When Sherlock was seventeen, Mycroft seriously contemplated letting him in on his worries about Sherrinford. But Sherlock loved and adored their youngest brother. And Sherrinford had started to turn him into an ally against Mycroft. Mycroft who was almost never home. Mycroft who had no sense of adventure or humour. The oldest Holmes chided himself for not being more careful. Somewhere in the last three years he had given himself and his suspicions away somehow. Sherrinford at least surmised that Mycroft was onto him and had started to prepare himself in the case a conflict would grow out of this. And with the oldest having started his work at the ministry, Sherrinford had ample opportunity to do so. He really shouldn’t have let affection lead him to underestimate an opponent.

 

He still loved Sherrinford. He just worried for him and suspected the boy was his own worst enemy. 

 

And he was Sherlock’s enemy as well, whether they both realised it or not.

 

In an attempt to bind ‘Lock more closely to him, he encouraged all the worst tendencies in his brother. And any attempt of Mycroft’s to counteract this destructive influence was met with open hostility. 

 

Mummy caught him once sighing after Sherlock spat some vicious insults at him before running off. “Don’t you worry, Myc. It’s just that age. In a few years you will laugh about it.”

 

Mycroft smiled sadly. “I’m sure you are right, Mummy.” Knowing that he was on his own on this.

 

Sherrinford wasn’t one of the goldfish. He was a Holmes. So he made a formidable foe. Mycroft really could have used an ally. Or at least not have Sherlock fight him as well.

 

And then the drugs started. 

 

Mycroft had never been so furious in his whole life. He made sure that no one but himself and his brother were at home when he confronted Sherrinford. If he had been anyone else, he probably would have started the conversation by establishing his physical superiority slamming his fourteen year old brother against a wall. The thought held a certain appeal to be honest. But Mycroft was very well aware that with any of his brothers that would be a waste of effort and counterproductive in the long run. So he sat in the kitchen, seemingly calm, drinking a cup of Indian blend when Sherrinford came home from school.

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

“Ah the manners of an adolescent, a good day to you too, brother-mine.”

 

“Shouldn’t you be in London?” Unlike Sherlock, Sherrinford didn’t slam his schoolbag into a corner, he neatly packed it away, even when his voice was sullen and defiant.

 

“My bosses would probably agree with you but I prefer to trust my own judgement. I’ve already completed the task set before me so no one needs to be the wiser. And I’m very sure that right now I should be here.”

 

Something in his voice, a hidden core of steel, made Sherrinford actually turn around and look at him. There was a certain curiosity and a hint of uncertainty in his face as he studied his brother.

 

“I would have expected you to go after Sherlock.”

 

“Oh I will, don’t worry. But I do believe in going after the root of the problem.”

 

For a moment Sherrinford obviously considered denying any involvement. Then he came to the conclusion that it was of no use. “And now?”

 

“Now is the point where I explain to you slowly and clearly, so that there will be no misunderstandings, how you will stop tempting or manipulating our brother in any way.”

 

“Sherlock is very capable of getting himself into trouble.”

 

“Which is exactly why he doesn’t need someone lacking any kind of conscience egging him on.” A part of Mycroft recognised the fraction of a reaction in his brother’s face at that accusation. He wanted to see it as a sign that he might still be mistaken. He wanted to keep his hope alive. He didn’t dare act on his hope though. “Sherlock is my brother and I won’t watch you or anyone else for that matter harming him.”

 

“I’m your brother, too.”

 

“Which at this point is the only reason why I won’t destroy you, Sherrinford. If I suspected anyone else of pushing drugs at Sherlock, they would regret it for the rest of their miserable lives which they would spent in some institution or other. You might think that I wouldn’t be able to do that to  _ you _ . That you are too clever for something like that to happen. But let me assure you, brother-mine, that I am not Sherlock. I’m neither slow nor easy to manipulate. And I will do whatever is necessary to protect my family. Pray that I will never come to the conclusion that you are irredeemable, that you are too stupid or stubborn to back off from this particular fight. Go play your games elsewhere, Sherrinford, and we can keep a ceasefire. Mess with Sherlock, Mummy, or Father and you will see what I am capable of when it comes to defending family.”

 

*  
  


It didn’t work of course. Sherlock had tasted forbidden fruit and having Sherrinford, his closest friend and ally, keeping his distance didn’t help. Sherrinford actually tried to keep on Mycroft’s good side, tried not to get Sherlock into further trouble. Mycroft recognised the effort. But with the oldest working in London and the youngest reluctant to include him in his shenanigans, Sherlock’s biggest enemy became boredom.

 

For some short years they all managed somehow, Mycroft visiting at least once every other week and more often when one of his brothers called for him in regards to a - usually Sherlock related - incident. Sherrinford almost became something of an ally, informing him each time Sherlock did something self-destructive. Mycroft didn’t fully trust his brother but apparently either his own very clear words had worked or Sherrinford cared for Sherlock at least and knew that Mycroft was the only one maybe able to help. At the back of his mind Mycroft contemplated the possibility that his youngest brother was only trying to lull him into a sense of safety before striking though and he always stayed alert.

 

Sherrinford was seventeen when Sherlock managed to get himself expelled. He was the one to take the call informing his family that Sherlock’s habit had become too much for his university to ignore. He posed as their father and learned that Sherlock had disappeared from his dorm the night before.

 

Instead of calling their parents, Sherrinford informed their oldest brother. Mycroft had to pull quite a few strings to be able to leave his work (and spent months afterwards working on making it up to everybody) but he was on Sherlock’s trail within a couple of hours.

 

Only that time Sherlock obviously didn’t want to be found.

 

It took Mycroft two weeks and considerable resources (including Sherrinford) to finally find his wayward brother. And when he did he was almost too late. Sherlock had obviously OD’ed. Mycroft Holmes, certified genius and most promising junior member of her Majesty’s government was reaching the end of his abilities. All he could really do was call in an ambulance and stay at his brother’s side.

 

When their parents finally arrived with Sherrinford, Sherlock was out of immediate danger. Confronted with his mother’s tears and his own terrified exhaustion, Mycroft thought it best to leave the room. He had shielded their parents to the best of his abilities but now he simply lacked the strength for calming lies. Sherrinford slipped out behind him, following him into the cafeteria. Mycroft ignored the younger until he had bought himself a piece of dry, crumbling, hospital cake and a cup of tea and had sat down in the darkest and most remote corner of the room.

 

“How could this happen?”

 

“You are quite clever, Sherrinford. I’m sure you can figure it out.” Mycroft took a sip of his tea. He was tired and not in the mood for any kind of game.

 

Sherrinford’s voice was hardly audible. “I never wanted this to happen.”

 

A harsh reply was already on his lips, Sherlock was lying in a hospital bed, his stomach pumped, barely clinging on to life, and it was at least partly Sherrinford’s fault. But then he saw the tears in his brother’s eyes. Actual remorse and guilt. As distrusting as he was of his youngest brother, the boy wasn’t that good of an actor. Sherlock had nearly died and he couldn’t do anything to help him right now. But he had two brothers and both of them needed him.

 

“Neither did I.”

 

*

 

Sherrinford was nineteen when he and Mycroft sat once again over the hospital bed of their brother. Sherlock kept the promise of a list which probably saved his life. Now he was sleeping naturally. Mummy and Father were currently in China, it was their thirtieth wedding anniversary and they decided to visit the Great Wall, all their children were more than old enough to look after themselves after all. Only Sherlock wasn’t, maybe never would be. Yet it didn’t matter. Mycroft was here and would always be. 

 

This time it wasn’t Sherrinford’s fault. Not that Mycroft believed for just a second that the youngest had any real ambitions in his studies, at least getting a BA in business kept his brother amused. There were several men and women with broken hearts he’d left behind over the last couple of years. Mycroft idly wondered if he’s just thoughtlessly cruel or if Sherrinford in a way was searching for something he was lacking, trying to fill a void he felt inside himself, like Sherlock with his drugs or Mycroft with his ambition for power and control. 

 

Mycroft knew his parents were perfectly lovely people who did an above average job on bringing up their three boys. He wondered whatever went wrong that left them all so different, so messed up all in their own ways. He looked at Sherrinford, surprised to see the youngest look back at him instead of studying the sleeping form of Sherlock.

 

“It’s my fault.”

 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. He knew his brother well enough to know he was not talking about Sherlock’s drug habit.

 

“That you are weird, you and Sherl’. I’m messed up so naturally you are too.”

 

“Even if I allowed for Sherlock’s type of egomania, which you usually don’t display, that would be a bit much. Neither of us is prone to that specific kind of delusion.”

 

Sherrinford laughed and it sounded bitter, reminding Mycroft suddenly of a conversation he overheard over a decade ago. He felt as if a spear of ice suddenly pierced through his heart.

 

“You are  _ not  _ Loki or any other kind of pagan entity for that matter. That whole idea is madness.”

 

“So you did hear when I told Sherl’? I always wondered. And of course you knew I wasn’t really joking around… I really shouldn’t have made you this clever.”

 

Mycroft pushed back the rising panic. This was no time to act like a headless fool. He needed to stay calm, reasonable, responsible. It was what he always did.

 

“Let’s ignore for a moment the fact that I have perfect memories going back way before your or Sherlock’s birth, as do our parents - and their friends and relatives. Let’s assume the Aesir actually exist instead of being stories the Northmen told each other to keep themselves entertained, perverted by the first Christian missionaries. So you are an actual God of Lies and used your power to create yourself a fake family with fake memories to make them fit into the world. Do you realise how that makes you sound?”

 

Sherrinford snorted. “I’m no fool, of course I know that it sounds absolutely lunatic. Which doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

 

“So you regularly father children that are some form of monster? Sherri, look at you. You are far more intelligent than anyone else your age. But you are not a centuries old god.”

 

“What if I am…”

 

“That would mean you are directly or indirectly responsible for that.” Mycroft’s head pointed towards Sherlock’s pale form on the hospital bed.

 

Sherrinford swallowed. “Now what?”

 

Mycroft sighed. “You need help, obviously. Sherlock needs to go through detoxification. You need to go through therapy. I highly doubt that you are a danger to yourself, so I don’t think you will need to be detained. There are several very good medications, once you are properly adjusted to an effective one you’ll be able to lead a normal and productive life. Well considering the rest of the family maybe not normal.”

 

“You are taking this incredibly calmly.”

 

“Would it help you if I panicked? You know that I’m right. And although we haven’t always seen eye to eye I trust you to see the truth in my words. I trust my brothers to see when they are wrong, even if it’s hard admitting it.”

 

“So no trying to trick me into a closed psychiatric ward for my own good?”

 

“I try to avoid betraying my brothers, Sherri.”

 

*

 

Despite Mycroft’s best efforts his thirties went far from well. His career went along adequately despite all the distractions provided by his family. But the more important part (even if he would never admit it) he simply couldn’t straighten out. Sherlock went in and out of rehab whenever Mycroft actually managed to either persuade him or things got so bad he found it necessary to force his little brother. At the same time Sherrinford went through therapy and although he spent the necessary time with psychologist and psychiatrist and took his medication, Mycroft could never shake the feeling that any kind of improvement was more owed to the fact that his brother got better at faking normalcy.

 

That was one of the huge disadvantages of dealing with a highly intelligent patient. It was almost impossible to treat a mental patient who could think in circles around his therapist.

 

Within the family the consensus became that Sherrinford was ‘not well’ and that Sherlock was ‘troubled’. Any reference to specifics was avoided at all cost. Mummy and Father simply couldn’t deal with the cold, hard facts that Sherlock was an addict and Sherrinford an honest-to-god delusional psychopath. So it fell upon Mycroft - the responsible one - to deal with anything that came up.

 

Things got better when Sherlock ran into a Detective Sergeant Lestrade from the Yard. The policeman was the first to actually take Sherlock’s crime scene ramblings seriously instead of ignoring him as a delusional junkie. When the man told Sherlock that he would only work with him when he was clean, Mycroft thanked the Heavens. This meant at least one other person would look after his troubled brother who might actually do some good. It wasn’t perfect but it helped.

 

Any thoughts of approaching the man, maybe turning him into an ally that could be relied upon in any family situation perished though when one of his regular check-ups on Sherrinford came up with a body.

 

All indications pointed at an accident.

 

Mycroft knew better.

 

After ensuring that the body wouldn’t be found, Mycroft knew he could never turn to the policeman for help. His brother was a murderer and he was complicit in the crime.

 

Still Mycroft tried.

 

Sherrinford was his brother. And with Sherlock having at least one other part time caretaker he could concentrate on helping Sherrinford instead. This meant neglecting Sherlock for the time being but he was sure he could mend any hurt feelings later.

 

*

 

Mycroft was forty-two when he finally decided that things had gone too far. That there was no way for him to redeem his brother. He felt like an addict finally admitting that he indeed had a problem with booze. It was terrifying and liberating at the same time.

 

When Sherlock was brought in on a crime Mycroft knew to be the work of their brother, he went to confront Sherrinford.

 

“I wondered when you would turn up…” Sherrinford looked almost bored.

 

Mycroft took a look around the very expensive flat. Unlike Sherlock, Sherrinford never had had a problem integrating into society to get what he wanted. And unlike Mycroft his goals were totally self-centered. So it really was no big surprise that his brother’s flat was even more exquisite than Mycroft’s own home. Sherrinford fitted into the flat perfectly, with tailored clothes and manicured nails, all terribly modern to Mycroft’s more conservative tastes.

 

“You know you destroy any kind of positive impression if you forget washing your hair, brother-mine.”

 

“The only person here is you. I highly doubt washing and cutting my hair would change your opinion of me at this point.”

 

Mycroft nodded slightly acknowledging his brother’s point.

 

“So why are you here?”

 

“Melinda Lambert.”

 

“Oh that was her name?” Still the same bored voice, still he didn’t even turn to look around, instead taking in the look from his penthouse window.

 

“The Yard brought in Sherlock to help with the investigation.”

 

“So? He’s the stupid one. Don’t worry, Myc. He won’t find me out.”

 

Mycroft’s hand slapped down on the little drawer besides him, resulting in a loud echoing crack.

 

Sherrinford actually turned around now looking slightly interested. It wasn’t like his oldest brother to lose his countenance like this.

 

“Sherlock isn’t half as foolish as you assume he is. And while he might not find out this time, eventually he will. And this will stop NOW.”

 

“Are you going to call the police on me, brother-mine? You have no real evidence and I would hardly confess. And the knowledge would break Mummy’s heart.”

 

“Indeed it would. Which is why you won’t get caught. You will die.”

 

Suddenly Sherrinford was all alert. He studied his brother carefully, searching for a weapon, waiting for an attack.

 

“Tomorrow night, after you made sure that some of your friends know that you went home to call in an early night because you had a slight headache or something equally believable, you will make a subtle switch with a loyal man working for me. He will get into your car and drive it here. A man of your build, wearing your clothes, will be seen going from your car to the elevator. The explosion that will take out this place will leave the charred remains of a man, that I will heart-brokenly identify as your earthly hull. Mummy and Father will be very sad of course but it will spare them to learn what you really are.”

 

“And me?”

 

“Will be discreetly put on a ship out of the EU. You can’t take any of your funds, that would raise suspicions. But I prepared some notes of various currencies, enough to give you a good start. You are intelligent. You are well educated. You will find your way. Just make sure to never come back.”

 

“Just like that?”

 

“Just like that. - Whatever it takes to protect the family, even from you.”

 

*

 

Over the years Sherrinford had contacted him once or twice - always very carefully, always in a way that couldn’t be tracked. The first few times Mycroft was soft and sent some form of help to his brother in need. But after getting the information from Frankfurt that his brother (of course no one knew it was actually Sherrinford, but Mycroft recognised the false identity as well as the pictures) had been in the middle of a regular massacre, threatening dozens of people with his delusions of being Loki, he refused to take Sherrinford’s calls.

 

And now a couple of years later, suddenly Sherrinford was actually here - in London - pleading for his help.

 

“Your  _ father _ ? Really Sherrinford, this again? These delusions…”

 

“Mycroft! Listen, I know I MADE you NOT to see the signs. I made you blind to this so I could have as real a life as possible. But I also made you intelligent - cleverer and more observant than even I could have imagined. Mycroft I NEED you to once again go above and beyond what I created you to be. You’ve seen the pictures of Frankfurt. Do you really think they would have sent Rogers and Stark if I WASN’T who I claimed I was? My FATHER is missing and if we can’t find him, there’s no way to stop literal Ragnarök.”

 

Mycroft wanted to protest, wanted to leave. But then the pictures of Frankfurt came back, rearranging themselves inside his mind… He tried to make them stop blurring before his inner eye but it only resulted in a massive headache. He fought it with everything he had but something was stopping him from remembering clearly…

 

“Mycroft?” For once Sherrinford sounded worried.

 

The oldest Holmes shook his head to clear away the blurred images that were only distracting him. He couldn’t clearly remember what he had seen in the recordings. But the conclusion from that was clear,

 

“Don’t expect me to call you Loki. That’s a ridiculous name.”

*  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I originally wanted this to be the start of something larger, but I'm not sure I will ever continue it. I think it works pretty OK on its own. Also if you take out the crossover aspect and simply see Sherrinford as a delusional psychopath, that's pretty much what I expect the TV version of him to be. So I definitely wanted to post it before the start of season 4, just in case I'm right. So I can point at this and prove my genius ;)


End file.
